


What's your deal, Solomon?

by Slipperdeedoo



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Gen, MC is a lightweight (in comparison), POV Second Person, reader is GN but definitely gay, solomon is a booze wizard and you cant convince me otherwise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26900719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slipperdeedoo/pseuds/Slipperdeedoo
Summary: You couldn't claim to be close to Solomon. But you do have some assumptions about the shady wizard - none of which you're shy sharing, especially over booze neither of you should have.
Relationships: Main Character & Solomon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 47





	What's your deal, Solomon?

Adjusting to your new living conditions took time. 

You were more than a little disappointed when you learned that alcohol wasn’t allowed in the house of lamentation. “Wasn’t allowed” meaning Lucifer immediately shot down the suggestion when you proposed it, threatening to provide something with an alcohol percentage high enough to dissolve your frail, human skin if you insisted. 

You knew the brothers got drunk off of something, but they did it well away from the eldest’s supervision. You didn’t really want to ask them what they drank, or to hook you up- getting mocked or, worse, dragged to a bar and left alone in the devildom, wasn’t all that appealing to you. 

With the implication that booze wasn’t smiled upon in the dorms, your eyes nearly popped out of your skull when you witnessed your fellow human exchange student discreetly sipping out of a flask. It was the end of the day, so couldn’t really judge him for imbibing. 

Solomon caught you staring and smiled, putting a finger over his lips. 

Panicking, you copy the gesture, trying to silently convey that you won’t snitch on him. At this, his smile deepens, and he opens his D.D.D. 

Your pocket buzzes, and you pull out your own device to see that he’s texting you. 

‘I’m assuming you can keep a secret?’ 

And with that, you arrange to “study” at the purgatory hall with your “close friend” Solomon. Lucifer was less than pleased to hear this, and was reluctant to drop you off. You weren’t thrilled to take the equivalent of the demon fuzz to your ‘illegal’ hooch rendezvous either, but safety prevailed over a possibly disappointed and huffy Lucifer. It wasn’t your fault Mammon had work that evening. But you had planned for this meeting with that in mind. 

Witnessing the awkward standoff between Simeon and the avatar of pride at the purgatory hall’s front door almost made it worth it. 

There was something deeply amusing about an angel delighted with Lucifer’s presence, while the demon seemed like he couldn’t leave (politely, these exchanges were always frigidly polite) fast enough. 

You try to tamp down the amused grin on your face as you slip past the two, Lucifer calling after you to inform you that Mammon will be picking you up after he’s done working. You don’t even turn to respond as you wave behind you, wordlessly signaling that you’ve heard him and ushering him to leave as you disappear from sight. 

You’re overjoyed to easily find Solomon in the front hall, waiting for you. 

“Any trouble getting here?” He asks politely, making small talk as he leads you further into the dorm. 

You answer with no, that you had no trouble and you both continue with your polite chatter as you enter his room. 

It’s pretty similar to your own, though the color scheme is wildly different, the lighting is dimmer, and with a sturdy desk over the table you have; clearly meant for a single person to study at. 

Solomon opens a drawer from the desk and pulls out a bottle of Amber liquid, and glasses from within a cabinet. 

“Whiskey?” You ask. 

“Rum, actually. I do have some Whisky if you prefer, but…” He trails off, his smile, while still polite, is knowing.

“Rum’s good.” You affirm. “I don’t think I have the refined palette for casual Whiskey drinking, if I’m honest.” 

“I only really use it when I need to trade favors, if I’m honest,” he speaks as he pours your glass. 

When he hands you your glass, he remains standing. You politely remain standing as well, chatting with him as time passes, going through a couple glasses. 

As he goes to pour you a third, he seems to notice you awkwardly shifting your weight from foot to foot- you’ve begun to tire, your drunken state becoming obvious. He pulls one of his more cozy chairs towards the desk after he hands back your glass. You only sit after he does, placing your glass on the desk next to his own. 

“So,” you settle down on the seat Solomon has offered. “What’s your, like, deal?” 

He can’t help chuckling in response. “My, like, deal?” He asks, incredulous. 

“Yeah!” You rock back, bringing your knees up and planting your heels into the seat cushion, promptly spreading your legs and wresting your elbows on your knees as you lean forward again. “Are you, like, THE Solomon the wise, or just some yutz using the name?” 

His eyes are glittering with amusement, but he doesn’t respond; his answer is a grin over the rim of his glass before he takes a sip of his “illegal” wares. 

“Names have power, you know.” You warn. 

He doesn’t stop smiling- if anything, he looks even more pleased. “I know.” 

You give him a hard look, thoroughly sloshed. “So.” 

“Mm?” 

“Have you been body hopping then?” 

He pauses mid-sip at that. He puts his glass down, eyes widening a fraction as you go on. 

“ ‘Cuz like. You are waaaay too pale and snowy lookin’ to be from the Middle East as you are.” 

“That’s all?” 

“Well,” you pause to take a sip of hooch, throat dry from your drunken chatter. “You’re so cold, Solomon.” 

He raises an eyebrow. 

You don’t notice as you ramble on. “It’s not just from wonky blood circulation either, ‘cause your entire body radiates a lack of heat.” 

“When did you notice this?” 

“Crashing into you was like, walking into a fridge but like. Meaty, I guess?” You pause, trying to think of a better description, and your drunken mind knows there’s a better one, but gives up under the alcoholic haze. “An’ like. You’ve been drinking since before I got here.” 

“I could just be very good at seeming sober.” He posits. 

“Nah!” You chuck something small from your pocket- a single grimm- in his direction, with the intention for him to catch it. 

That coin does not fly anywhere remotely near Solomon, and clatters against a wall. You point at him. “Pretend you caught that.” 

He laughs again. “No, I don’t think I will. So, any more evidence for your accusation?” 

“Mm!” You slap the desk table, getting your train of thought back on track. “You have like, over ninety demonic pacts, and. Both the demons who really care about my safety are wary of you.” 

“It’s not just them,” he posits. 

“You’ve gotta know some demon magic.” 

“More than some.” For Solomon, he’s dropping an insane amount of details- but you’re too far gone to care. Solomon knows this, enjoying the wiggle room it’s giving him. 

“And if I’m honest? I don’t like the idea of it simply beaching you and sand blasting your possible wrinkles away. Seems too easy for magic. The themes of immortality AND using magic to solve your problems is too prevalent in any folklore or mythology for it to NOT have an obnoxious cost.” 

“I’m shocked you would imply that the use of a corpse would merely be ‘obnoxious’,” he’s trying to seem incredulous, but he can’t hide how his voice hitches as he barely holds in another laugh. 

You don’t notice, but you’re too sure of yourself to back down from your hypothesis. “It’s not like finding a body is hard when you’re a king. Or in possession of demon pacts. And it’s not like it’d be hard to find someone in a coma or suicidal enough to give up their body, these days.” 

“Touché.” He sips at his drink again. 

“I know what you are.” 

“Say it.” Even you can tell he’s barely holding in laughter. 

“Yourra lich.” You slur out. 

You’re both losing your collective shit, feeding off of each other’s laughter at the stupid joke when Simeon pokes his head into the common room, calling your name. “Mammon’s come to pick you up.”

You clap with joy and swing out of the chair; happy to see your first. You don’t really care if he sees you like this, and you doubt he could criticize you for cutting a little loose. 

“Good luck.” Solomon says, as way of a farewell. 

“You too!” You enthusiastically reply. “Have a good night!” 

“You too.” His response is soft, spoken only after you've turned your back.

**Author's Note:**

> First fic posted to ao3! woo!  
> Who'da thunk writing at 1 am would give a really good feel for drunken speech?


End file.
